


What Could Have Been

by dhyanshiva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Gen, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25379383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhyanshiva/pseuds/dhyanshiva
Summary: It was when he was on a broom that he felt the safest, freer than he ever was with both feet on firm ground. Many thought it absurd, that he was always so eager to practice the sport, what with how many injuries he’d sustained due to it. It was laughable, really, how many times he found himself in the infirmary. He’d spent more time under Poppy’s watchful gaze than Pince’s – that he was calling Madam Pomfrey by her first name only proved the imbalance, for Morgana’s sake! Yet, that he was the one to manoeuvre that broom – Quirrell’s manipulation notwithstanding – he was responsible for his actions.Or, where Harry understands more about himself during a (surprisingly) uneventful summer after 6th Year.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Petunia Evans Dursley/Vernon Dursley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	What Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> Joanne has given us countless reasons to hate her, the first being her inexcusable bigotry. I've never understood how she could put her protagonist through such a childhood and have him turn out as functional as he did. I disagree with numerous canon concepts and so, this came about. It's an attempt to make this self sacrificing character introspect and acknowledge his trauma. It may come across as slightly OOC but seeing as practically everything has been turned on its head by the readers and other writers, I gave myself a little leeway..  
> This is a platform with thousands of HP pieces - this is my humble addition. More power to us writers :)
> 
> I'd love to read what you thought of it!
> 
> Much love,  
> Dhyan

**30.07.1997 23:59**

Harry James Potter lay wide awake, Hedwig’s soft hoots from the other end of the room helping him keep the waves of panic at bay. Finally, he heard the clock downstairs ring aloud in the otherwise silent night and the wand resting in his hand began to glow, silver and golden sparks bursting forth for a whole minute. Harry knew he’d turned 17 now but all at once felt as if he was 11, stood in Ollivander’s store, holding this very wand for the first time. This was the second ‘magical milestone’ for all wizards and witches – they were finally allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts.

Harry felt the restraints around his magical core he hadn’t even known existed fall away and for the first time in weeks, let himself truly smile. This was it: he could feel the low hum of magic coursing through his veins become more noticeable, as if calling out to him, urging him to notice its presence. And rightly so, seeing as he’d been forced to suppress the bouts of power that had threatened to overwhelm him almost hourly. It had been 6 years since he’d begun at Hogwarts and each year, his wonderful relatives' treatment of him had worsened considerably – even Harry didn’t think this was possible. Though he wouldn’t ever stoop to their level, he finally had the means to give it back to them as he’d received – there was far too much to account for, but if it gave him some peace, then why not?

His first move, though, was to sort out the sorry excuse of a room he’d been so graciously shoehorned into. A thorough _Scourgify_ and a few handy decorating spells later, the space was completely unrecognisable. He hadn’t gone so far as to expand its width, not wanting to tamper with the limits of Muggle architecture but had taken the liberty of expand the bed and fix the hole in the ceiling. On leafing through a copy of ' _Hogwarts, A History Of Magic_ ', he found the spell Hermione had sought out that charmed the ceiling of the Great Hall. It had been a rare instance where he’d been as intrigued as her and they had rejoiced on learning the open secret. Running through the movements a few times, he looked up and charmed the now repaired ceiling to show Sirius' constellation at night. He transfigured a few of the broken toys left under the bed into layers of plush bedding for Hedwig’s cage. Harry set up a bookshelf against the wall for his textbooks and knick-knacks from the dorm room. After a moment’s hesitation, he cast a concealment charm over their spines and set up repellent wards over the whole thing. Though the Dursleys knew better than to invade this ‘freakish’ room, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

Over the next month, he put his skills of wandless magic to good use, playing small but impressive tricks that left Aunt Petunia flustered and Uncle Vernon speechless - they couldn’t blame him for things they hadn’t seen him do. Harry took this month to do as much physical damage to the house as possible. Shattering dinner sets, messing with the plumbing by making the tubes cross over, making the telly lag – none of these could be fixed the Muggle way. Neither would he putting his _Reparo_ to the task. Petunia didn’t dare seek help from her ‘normal’ world for all of this was inexplicable. Should she try and explain it, she too would be termed a ‘freak’ and she wasn’t about to take that risk. Still, albeit feebly, she tried to make Harry do the chores. At this, he’d cast a _Scourgify_ over the sink, charm the dustpan and brush and execute the cooking charms Molly had taught him. Petunia couldn’t fault him for this even though she so desperately wanted to – the tasks were done, after all.

Harry now had a lot more time on his hands and he utilised it to revise all the basic theories of magic as well as trying to master some of the more difficult wandless spells. Knowing he, Ron and Hermione were up for their greatest challenge yet, he also had to brush up on his frankly abysmal skills in everything save DADA. He kept up a regular correspondence with his friends and their letters helped keep his spirits lifted. However, in this time, Harry also began to learn more about the Muggle world, a kind of education he’d been deprived of over the years. They’d made advances in places that the magical realm hadn’t even thought to venture into. One of these fields was psychology, study of the human mind. He’d been particularly invested in the field of Developmental Psychology and made frequent trips to the local library to learn as much as he could about this fascinating domain. Within it, he’d learnt much about the ways that his horrendous upbringing had impacted him and for the first time, Harry was forced to truly acknowledge that the scars he bore were _more_ than just skin deep. That decade had shaped him into who he was today and that was undeniable.

On arriving at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey had administered potions, cast spells and the like to remedy the physical shortcomings to the best of her ability. He had benefitted tremendously but there was nothing and no one available for his mind. It was only now, 6 years later, after he’d asked Hermione to look into available career options at St. Mungos – he’d said it was for DADA purposes – that Harry learnt of the existence of Mind Healers. He’d asked her to owl some of their research on the magic behind a Patronus while he was at it. On reading them – entirely out of choice, mind you – he could understand a lot more about himself too, unsurprisingly. His Boggart in that particularly memorable class with Remus had been a Dementor. Not Voldermort, not Vernon, not Snape. Why? Well, this was his idea: he feared despair. Dementors were the guards of Azkaban, the dreaded wizard prison, yes. But what was their purpose? To quite literally drain a person of their happiness. Of which Harry Potter had very little. He feared losing those thin strands of joy that held him together against all odds. Without them, he’d become the Harry from under the stairs: scared, tired, unbelievably pessimistic. He’d feel hopeless, like a failure once more. He couldn’t bear to see dead eyes in the mirror once more. To see skin so pale the damned scar stood out more than ever. He couldn’t have that any cost. It only helped matters that he was a powerful wizard with an incredible wand. The ability to summon a Patronus had re assured Harry that he had a flame of happiness flickering bright within him – the despair hadn’t extinguished it, not yet. And it never would. On embarking to this new school, he believed he’d been given the chance to find happiness, a new lease of life - there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d have been able to pass the 11+. Then again, _when_ had things ever been so gloriously easy for him?

Of course, given Harry’s poor luck and the damned prophecy, he had Voldermort on him at every turn but by then, he’d learnt to be paranoid, wary and distrustful. For that, he could credit his dear aunt and uncle. He’d been forced under their care by Dumbledore, but they’d neglected him completely. He’d learnt at a young age the consequences of even the slightest dissent, a mere hint of disobedience. He was berated for the things he didn’t do, reprimanded for those he did – but incorrectly, somehow – there was really no evading some form of punishment. On learning about different categories of temperament, he could clearly see which ones applied to him, but the reasoning no longer saddened him – what else could Harry have expected? His blood relatives were so painfully different from his own parents. Petunia didn’t deem it fit to show even an ounce of warmth towards he own nephew, treating him like scum, so cold and uncaring. No wonder he was so trusting of a complete stranger, a whole new world.. he’d grabbed the opportunity to escape one danger for a whole host of perils for no fault of his own.

Looking back on it now, many things made a lot more sense. His impulsiveness, complete inability to create and adhere to strategies. Lack of concern for his own well being which allowed him to face each challenge that noseless bastard threw at him without ever considering how badly it was fucking with his mind. At these revelations, Harry was thrown back to that fateful night at the Astronomy Tower, when Snape had quite succinctly pinpointed the root cause – Dumbledore and the Dursleys. He’d deliberately been placed in that household – they knew of his state, the _letter_ was addressed to that poky space under the stairs for Merlin’s sake!

The more he read, the more infuriated Harry became. Surely, Dumbledore knew the consequences of his actions that night, he knew exactly how to get Harry to do his bidding. He’d led Harry to believe all those disastrous events were a mere coincidence when really, it was all for the fulfilment of a prophecy. The hours spent in the warm, welcoming Muggle library was far more enjoyable than the one at Hogwarts. He chose most often to sit in a beanbag, legs sprawled out. There was no one there to scrutinise his every move, he was free to just _be_. That was another thing he’d come to despise about the way his adolescence had panned out. In the midst of all the chaos, his education had been compromised. It was only with Hermione’s persistence and support he’d managed to achieve the marks he had, Merlin only knows where he’d be without her. But before all this, Harry loved school, he truly did. The first few times he’d outshone Dudley in maths and spelling tests, he’d been yelled at for hours on end by his uncle while Aunt Petunia fussed over Dudley and gave him countless bars of chocolate to pacify him. He didn’t understand – wasn’t doing well a good thing? Something he should at least receive a smile for, right? After the 5th time, Harry learnt to restrain himself, stick hi hand up less often in class, hand in messy sheets of sums and make deliberate spelling errors. His teachers noticed but only after their persistent queries, their genuine concern did Harry reveal part of the truth. The rest he fabricated, in case this got back to his aunt in some way or the other. It was what paved the way for some respite in his early childhood.

Owing to how scrawny he looked and how little he was fed, he felt ill countless times over the course of the term. It meant that he was prohibited from going out during playtime and exposing himself to the unpredictable English weather. Instead, in lieu of detention for his poor academic performance, Harry was holed up in the library with his teachers and they helped him develop on the potential that was so evident to them all. Alongside becoming a place where he could actively learn, uninhibited and fearlessly. He absorbed all the praise he could, _basked_ in it and really, that was what made his ordeal in that ordinary house on Privet Drive tolerable. The prospect of a few hours where he could forget what he should be and instead on what he could become. This system also kept him shielded away from Dudley and the other bullies on the playground. That he could ever feel that kind of safety and peace again wasn’t something Harry had ever considered possible, so he cherished every minute in that welcoming space as he delved further into this complex subject.

It was returning to his room and seeing the magical textbooks that he began to understand what made these two experiences for learning so different. Where during primary school he was a perfectly unextraordinary child, just another student amongst 30 other normal ones, at Hogwarts, he was The Harry Potter. Even at the library, he was expected to live up to a standard that had been set up for him. It was something he could never explain to a studious person like Hermione who took every opportunity she could to sit at a table with numerous textbooks fanned out on the table. At Hogwarts, everything was turned on its head.

He felt safer on the open grounds and Quidditch pitch than he did in the castle. Unbeknownst to him till Ron had pointed it out, Harry had come to keeping a hand in the pocket of his robes at all times. The heavy footfalls of his uncle and cousin, the click of his aunt’s heels as they neared his cupboard had morphed into listening out for the swish of Snape’s robes, the odd combination of Malfoy and his cronies at every turn. He’d never had the opportunity to admire the magnificent school building after that first night for he had to be on his guard at all times, think of attacks rather than the aesthetic. He despised almost everything about it, and it hurt. Not even Hogwarts was safe, secure and unchanging. The stairs were a hazard in themselves and it had taken him a long time to get used to the almost constant crowding in the corridors and the fact that the portraits were more or less alive. Just another layer of scrutiny, _wonderful_.

It was when he was on a broom that he felt the safest, freer than he ever was with both feet on firm ground. Many thought it absurd, that he was always so eager to practice the sport, what with how many injuries he’d sustained due to it. It was laughable, really, how many times he found himself in the infirmary. He’d spent more time under Poppy’s watchful gaze than Pince’s – that he was calling Madam Pomfrey by her first name only proved the imbalance, for Morgana’s sake! Yet, that he was the one to manoeuvre that broom – Quirrell’s manipulation notwithstanding – he was responsible for his actions. It was an outlet for his anxiety, his anger, his fear. It was here that he recalled his house team, his house. Gryffindor. He distinctly remembers begging the Hat not to put him in Slytherin. Why? Was it based on hearsay or genuine fear of the house of snakes? Yes, Malfoy had made a poor first impression, but how much had he really known of the houses? All he’d heard were that his parents, war heroes, had been in the noble house, the brave house. That Voldermort was a Slytherin, the house best known for its Dark Wizards. But why hadn’t he been allowed to learn more, from different people? Harry had been impressionable, naïve, easily persuaded. So.. why?

This question nagged at him for days till finally, a week before he was to board the gleaming red train, he was able to find an answer. A thought had crept into his mind, slowly, stealthily - not unlike a snake, really – and took root. It made him frown, made him uncomfortable, but it was something to think about. The Hat was never wrong, and he’d effectively vetoed the idea, thinking he knew better. Beyond Tom Riddle, what did he _really_ know of the house of green and silver?

What he’d seen only weeks ago only served to affirm the fact that there was a lot more to people, to events than he’d ever understood. Was he really a Gryffindor? Yes, he was Brave, Courageous, The Boy Who Lived but wasn’t he also ambitious? Didn’t he wish to lead the life of peace and contentment he’d always dreamed of? To live up to the legacy of his mother? The Marauders (excluding the rat Pettigrew of course)? What about cunning and resourceful? How else would he have been able to make it to the cusp of 7th year? Was he not endowed with leadership qualities? In all but name, he was the head of the D. A, for example. Why were these traits of survival looked down upon, mocked even while the reckless nerve, absence of self-preservation of the Gryffindors was lauded and encouraged?

Perhaps, if Harry had been encouraged to value caution, to value himself, his own safety a little more than he did, then he would have been able to safeguard his mind a little better. With this, unfortunately, he was taken unwittingly down the endless path of ‘what ifs. What if Sirius hadn’t convinced his parents to change their Secret Keeper? What if Pettigrew actually had a heart? What if his father had been able to AK Voldermort at their front door? What if he’d been raised by Lily and James? What if he’d never gotten that –

The last week of the summer holidays – the first and only true break for Harry – went by in a blink of an eye. He’d remained distracted, plagued by this storm of questions. Of what could have been, what should have been. Yet, when he arrived at King’s Cross and made his way through that wall to 9 3/4 , Harry knew the answer to all those. Seeing his classmates, the students from their year and those below. Seeing families with bright smiles, joyous exclamations of friends reuniting after a prolonged separation. His own friends’ faces brightening at the sight of him. The curiosity of infants at the wonders of this magical world, a school with all these cool things. He knew he’d do it all this exact way all over again. He’d take the years of abuse, manipulation, pain and fear again if it meant he could secure a future for these people. Much like his own parents. They’d cared less for their own safety and more for the world of magic they considered their own, the one they loved. They’d put their son ahead of themselves and his standing here, the ability to experience all this was a result of their sacrifice.

There was no point in mourning the past, counting his misfortunes, conjuring up scenarios, alternate realities of what could have been. That couldn’t be changed. Nor could he allow anyone ahead of him to bear the brunt of such a prophecy on young shoulders. Never again would the Wizarding World need to fear a single wizard like they did Tom Riddle. Harry wouldn’t do this because it had been imposed upon him before he was born. No, he would do this out of choice, for _himself_ , for a future where he could finally breathe in peace. Where there wasn’t a shadow of gloom and fear lurking at every nook and cranny. Where students could stroll through the grounds, through the castle and love their experience, make wonderful memories worth cherishing, not nightmares they’d want to bury. He wanted them to learn, to live, laugh and to love life. And if it cost him his life, then so be it. With that in mind, he ran towards his best friends and they boarded the Hogwarts Express for their final year.


End file.
